


Conviction

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 04:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21403999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: Even after Lorgar Aurelian assumed his rightful place at his Legion's head, there remained an old guard of hardline believers in the Imperial Truth. Yet one need not exclude the other, as the first native of Colchis earns his place in the Ashen Circle.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Conviction

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Убежденность](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439077) by [Greykite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite), [WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020/pseuds/WTF_Warhammer_Legions_2020)

The tang of machine oil mixed with sea salt. The comfortable weight of powered armour. Worn lightly, like the robes of some Imperial magnate or minister, but never _lightly_ \- such wargear was burdened with more than conductors and ablatives and socket interfaces. It came with responsibility, with certain expectations and demands, with long, long years of tradition and honour. No man took up such without recognising this - and being, in his turn, recognised for embodying those virtues.

It had been a long climb. From the base of Choralas to its cloud-haloed peak, from the lowest ranks - both had been arduous, daring, and both had never seen a backward step or a comfortable plateau.

Both were something to be proud of.

Rasek knelt on grit and granite, head bowed, warrior’s knot tugged by the wind’s whimsy. His helm lay before him, the blank visor reflecting his own carefully-neutral features. There was much of Colchis written plain on his face, he knew, but birth meant nothing within a Legion that recruited from every glorious, faithful world they brought into compliance.

Around him stood several of his brothers, their own heads lowered. And before them, at the cliff’s very edge, prowled Tol Berendar, squad-master of the Ashen Circle. A giant of a man from far-away Terra, Berendar held his part of the Circle true to the Throneworld alone.

Until now.

If he wasn’t found wanting at the last moment and thrown from the cliff to his death on the breakers below, of course. Rasek had heard the fearsome rumours - and welcomed them. To venture into the Emperor’s skies required absolute faith and devotion. They were the sole domain of Him-on-Terra. To intrude in them was sacrilege, and the unworthy would be cast down as their blasphemous reward.

Once such sentiments would have earned him, at the very least, censure and rebuke. His career within the Legion would have been all but over, stymied and reduced to nothing better than a line Marine. Now it was a common belief. The Aurelian had made it joyously so. Some elements had resisted the great change, however. The Ashen Circle had been amongst the most brutal enforcers of the Imperial Truth. Many still clung to those old beliefs rather than new enlightenment.

Berendar turned. Lightning flashed behind him, far out to sea where a storm was building.

‘So,’ he growled, the vox-amplifier on his helm doing nothing to flatten the richness of his voice. ‘Here we are at last. One of the Primarch’s whelps proved worthy.’ A grunt. ‘Took long enough.’

‘An honour, sir,’ Rasek made to stand.

‘On your knees, whelp.’

He sank down again.

‘We might not be demagogues with myrrh and gilt,’ Berendar continued, stalking forward. ‘We might not be in for the fancy speeches you and your kind make. But the Circle, you might be surprised, has a superstition or two of our own.’

At an unseen signal, the hooded serfs who had been standing back behind the Marines came forward, each bearing an urn. On each was stencilled a planetary name as assigned by Imperial cartographers, a campaign rune and a date. The caps were vacuum sealed and came loose with a pop and hiss, releasing the fierce scent of ash, blood and spent promethium into the air.

Eyes narrowed, breathing quickening, Rasek’s superhuman physiology reacted immediately to the nearness of immediate battle. The shifting of stances of those around him indicated that he was not alone in this; every warrior of the Adeptus Astartes present had unconsciously assumed a posture that would protect their brothers and meet any oncoming threat. That was their greatest strength: that unbreakable bond between every Marine, that invisible and inviolable connection that made them the greatest fighting force in the galaxy. It was holy communion, forged for crusading knights by the Emperor Himself.

And it was, of course, the final test. If even one of those present had not included Rasek, if they had not included him in their protective circle - he, the most vulnerable, on his knees - then judgement would have been swift. He would have been cast down, unworthy.

Satisfied, Berendar waved the serfs back. They bowed and retreated, closing the ash-casks as they did and in their place came on a gaggle of red-robed adepts of the Mechanicum, an arming servitor close behind cradling a jump pack of wondrous make.

‘You’re accepted,’ said the squad-master, turning his back to look out to sea as the adepts began their work. ‘I admit I had my doubts, Rasek. We’ve had some bad blood with the Primarch, you know. And that’s not the Aurelian’s fault. He’s been patient with us, understanding - we’re fortunate. Some other Legion - _any_ other Legion - and we’d have been stripped of rank and colour, sent off to garrison a backwater until the Crusade ended. But Lorgar listened. ‘Take your time,’ he said. Understanding isn’t an instant thing. Even he struggled before the Emperor came to Colchis, out in the desert. ‘Have faith,’ he said, with that smile of his. ‘I did.’’

The extra weight bore down like the shock it was. Even with all the technical mastery of the Mechanicum, for all the actuators and compensators in powered plate, a jump pack was still a burden. It required deftness to control in the air and consideration when on the ground - the momentum couldn’t be so easily checked on the charge.

While the Wolves of Fenris might throw themselves headlong into battle, or the Angels of Baal come down in stately chorus, one did not bear the Word so brazenly. Each jump, each plunge, every duck and turn was to be like the thrust and counter-thrust of passionate debate, each riposte and counter prepared and ready for each of the opponent’s sallies. It was not a matter of overwhelming force or organised destruction - each assault was to be to the heart of the matter. Each blow was to pave a stone step, building up to an undeniable victory.

The Ashen Circle were the first and surest argument in the Word Bearer’s armoury. They struck down leaders and priests, burned armouries and stockpiles, put forbidden and heretical knowledge to the flame. They were trusted to roam out ahead and make clear the way for all to come.

To hold that responsibility, to shoulder that pressure - well. It made the jump pack feel as nothing.

Rasek rose. He accepted his helm from a serf, sealed it tight. Activation runes reported all systems nominal. Squad-markers pulsed in welcome, each of his new brothers clicking their affirmation of his armour’s silent query. The hand-flamer locked to his thigh reported a full tank and an eagerness to work.

With a casual underhand, Berendar threw his badge of office. The bright gleam of the Ashen Circle’s fearsome weapon, the axe-rake, pointed like an entrenching tool at the horn and a fearsome burr of chain-teeth ringing the head. Rasek caught it, swung an experimental slash - the balance was perfect, tuned exactly to his preferences and strength, from bio-data gathered in his service to the Legion.

He raised it in salute to the squad-master. Berendar nodded and turned back to the cliff’s edge, the sea, and the oncoming storm — and the shoreside, hard-shielded library of the heretic cardinal of Thirteen-Four-Eight that was their target.

‘To war,’ the squad-master voxed, jump pack roaring to life. ‘For the Emperor.’


End file.
